Pillar of Salt
by somethingsdont
Summary: Valera-centric. We are defined by our experiences, both the ones we control and the ones out of our power.


A/N: I love Valera, and everyone else should too.

* * *

**Pillar of Salt**

i.** ice**

There's skiing, and then there's skiing in a Colorado winter. Others prefer Vermont, or Nevada, or resorts in colder countries, continents, but for those who'd grown up in the Rockies, everything else pales in comparison.

Her parents are avid skiers, and they've instilled the same wonder in their first two children, sons. They'd long ago decided that they wouldn't treat a daughter any differently, and on Maxine's third birthday, she unwraps her first pair of skis. Her brothers pitch in for a lift ticket.

It's a chilly day on the slopes, and she's bundled so tightly from head to toe that she can barely move her arms or legs, but that doesn't deter her enthusiasm. Her mother brings her to the bunny hill, shows her how to point her skis into a pizza slice shape as makeshift brakes. She takes a deep breath and pushes off, balancing precariously on her tiny skis as she slides slowly down the hill.

At the bottom of the slope, she raises her ski poles in celebration. A daredevil at heart, she's instantly hooked.

Later that day, she rides the ski lift with her brothers to a real slope, but they've got years of experience and plenty of extra muscle mass over her, so she quickly falls behind. In an attempt to catch up, she pushes too hard and catches an edge, tumbling and hitting her helmeted head against the icy cold snow. Her lower lip quivers, and she bites back tears.

Her mother is by her side immediately with a kind smile. "One day," she reassures her.

"Too fast," Maxine complains, whacking her poles against the snow in frustration.

"Forget about them," her mother urges, touching her tiny shoulder. "You have to do things for yourself. Beating your brothers is just a bonus."

Maxine blinks, confused. She doesn't understand yet.

Her mother chuckles. "Race you down?"

Ten seconds later, Maxine rises with a renewed determination to conquer the mountains.

* * *

ii.** earth**

Her father's tears terrify her. She's old enough to know she should grieve but not quite old enough to understand why. She knows that it hurts. She knows her baby brother will never chew on her hair again. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to will Zachary back, but she learns for the first time that imagination and willpower aren't limitless.

She remains quiet throughout the burial service, watching as a too-tiny coffin is lowered into the fresh earth. Her mother sobs against her father's shoulder; her two teenage brothers stare quietly at their feet, eyes moist. She hangs her head. She'd been told that crying is okay, but she doesn't want to. In life, her little brother had been a happy boy, and though she's too young to understand it, she values that, cherishes it because it's all she has left from him.

She's the baby of the family again. She doesn't want to be, but murderers tend not to care what nine-year-olds have to say.

The grass is firm beneath her new shoes, and as the service comes to a close, she runs as far away from her brother's gravesite as her little feet will carry her and kicks violently at the ground. She tugs the white ribbons out of her hair and stomps angrily on them, pressing ugly dirt-filled footprints into the strips of cloth. Stubborn tears cloud her eyes, but she bravely brushes them away, even as fresh ones form in their place.

"Maxine."

She stills for a moment, her tiny body trembling against her fury. "No," she murmurs, her voice tinged with fear and confusion and a gut wrenching sorrow.

Her father approaches her. "Maxine," he repeats gently.

"I _hate_ him," she seethes, tears streaking down her cheeks. "Why'd he hurt Zack?"

Her father leans down beside her, his knee pressing against the moist earth. "Max, he was a very, very sick man."

She stares at her feet, irresolute. "It's not fair."

Her father exhales deeply, relegating his own anguish to comfort his daughter. "I know, Max," he says quietly, pulling her into his arms. "Zack—" The name remains strained in his throat, and she learns that her father isn't invincible either. He recomposes himself. "The people we love never really leave us."

Ten hours later, she speaks to the baby brother she'd never grow up with.

* * *

iii. **fire**

Her first time, she'd been told, would be analogous to regurgitating her own heart and then swallowing it again. Understandably, then, as Ben MacIntyre's semi-naked body hovers over hers, Maxine is nervous. He kisses her sloppily, too much tongue, too much unnecessary movement _down there_, and her cheeks flush crimson.

He begins to undress her, his fingers shaking slightly, and she realizes she's his first, too. He struggles with buttons and zippers and clasps, tries to make it up to her by trailing light, unsure kisses down her neck. It takes him a moment to figure out what to do when he finally comes face to face with her breasts, but he figures it out, and she moans in apprehensive gratification.

It's a little easier after that, a little less tense, and though he can't wait long enough for her the first time, his stamina lasts the second time, and the third…

It's nothing like she'd been told, nothing like she'd expected. Her heart thuds in her chest, her lungs burning fiery hot as she tries to breathe against the initial pain, the eventual pleasure. It's awkward and clumsy and she's uncharacteristically self-conscious, but she finds that she likes it. She likes it a lot.

Ben's parents aren't home, and he's an only child, so there's no rush. With practice, she thinks, he'll become more than satisfactory. Her skin heats up at the thought, and it stokes a fire in her core, keeps her warm. When both are sufficiently sated, he even holds her like he's supposed to, and she has the feeling she's too young and not wholly prepared for anything beyond the physical sensations, but it's nice and even a little romantic.

"I love you," Ben offers in a whisper.

She shifts against him, perspiration building. "You don't know that."

He shrugs, and she senses disappointment there. "I can still say it."

She frowns, calculated logic churning. "Why say something you don't mean?"

"I don't know, Maxine," he replies with a hint of indignation. "Why d'you gotta be so difficult? Someone tells you they love you, just take it. Shit…"

She feels immature and inadequate. "You're being an ass," she grumbles.

"And you're picking a fight with me for no reason," he counters, a flash of hurt evident behind his toxic tone. "Fuck, Maxine, nobody needs a permit to love you."

Ten days later, she turns fifteen.

* * *

iv. **wind**

The envelope is thick, and immediately, Maxine's pulse begins to hammer. She reaches a shaky hand into her mailbox and picks up the package, weighing it carefully in her hands. It feels heavy. Heavier, certainly, than the brief and polite rejection letter she'd received from Brown University a week earlier. But in her mind, that'd always been a long shot. It'd never been where she'd wanted to go, anyway. She rolls the envelope over in her hands and reads the return address. Her palms begin to sweat; this is the one.

Unable to bear it any long, she tears open the envelope as a gentle breeze brushes her skin. Seconds later, she's running through the house shrieking at the top of her lungs, wildly waving a sheet of paper above her head with one hand while clutching the remainder of the package like a football with the other. She calls her brothers, who offer their congratulations, and her best friend, who remains oddly quiet throughout the conversation. Maxine offers to meet her at the park; Heidi sounds rather indifferent but agrees.

Twenty minutes later, Maxine kicks off her sneakers and peels her socks from her feet, her toes sinking into the warm playground sand. She joins Heidi on the swing set.

Heidi's eyes are downcast, her voice low and surprisingly bitter. "So you're gonna ditch this town," she mumbles without looking up.

Maxine frowns, kicking at the sand. "You're not happy for me," she observes.

A sudden gust of wind whips Heidi's light brown hair across her face. "I'm trying," she mutters.

"What's gotten into you?" Maxine fumes, using her body's inertia to swing higher.

Heidi blows at the hair in her face; it falls back against her cheeks."I'm not going to college," she announces with a shrug.

The wind working against her, Maxine drags her toes against the sand to stop the swing, her eyes wide. "What? Why the hell not?"

Heidi squirms, visibly uncomfortable. "My mom's cancer came back. We don't have the money." Her words are rough and barren, spoken with a practiced detachment.

Maxine's heart drops. "Is she—is she going to be okay?"

Heidi half-shrugs, defeat sketched across her features. "Even if she is, I have to take care of Matt and Jill for the time being."

Maxine shakes her head, refusing. She hears the winds of separation brewing in the distance. "There has to be a way. Maybe my parents can—"

"Sometimes things get out of your control, Maxine," Heidi interrupts, sounding wiser than her years. She forces a tight smile. "I'm happy for you, Max. Or I will be when this blows over."

Maxine rises, shoving her hands into her pant pockets. "I'm sorry," she murmurs.

"Don't be," Heidi insists, pushing herself off her swing. She hesitates a moment before wrapping her arms around her best friend. "I'll make it to law school eventually. Dreams aren't meant to be easy."

Ten months later, Maxine pens in a minor in criminology at the University of Miami.

* * *

v. **light**

The heat, she'd gotten used to. It's the humidity she still has trouble with. There's a difference. Colorado, for example, reaches the high eighties-low nineties in the summer. Hot. Not scorching, but hot. Desert hot. It's nothing like the Miami heat; moist and sticky. She'd spent too many years in dry places, high places, and Miami happens to be neither.

Four years of college and she still complains about the humidity.

Her first week under the department payroll is fairly eventless. She's shown the facilities, introduced to her fellow technicians and lectured on lab policies and procedures. A little intimidating, but she'd never been one to back down from a challenge. When her brother had been murdered all those years ago, forensic DNA analysis had been in its infancy, but cases now are incomplete without it, juries expect it, and she understands her role in the process.

Calleigh Duquesne pokes her head into the DNA lab. "Hey, Maxine. Eric, Tim and I are taking a lunch break. Would you care to join us?"

Maxine smiles. "Sure, just give me a sec to clean up."

On their way to meet the guys, Calleigh tosses a sideways glance at Maxine. "How's the new job treating you?"

"Keeps me busy, pays the bills. You know," Maxine replies, following Calleigh toward the elevator. "How long've you been working here?"

"Little over three years," Calleigh replies with a short chuckle. "Feels like ten sometimes."

"Still worth it?"

"Yeah," Calleigh nods. The elevator doors open, and the two step in. "You're not here just for the paycheck," she observes.

Maxine furrows her brows, perplexed. "I'm sorry?"

Calleigh appears slightly embarrassed. "Oh, I don't mean to be presumptuous," she explains, pressing the ground floor button and watching as the doors close again. She turns to Maxine and offers a smile, a preemptive peace offering. "You just seem to be doing this for some greater purpose."

Maxine thinks of Zachary. "I—suppose I am," she replies tentatively.

Calleigh smiles. "I think we all need that. Our reasons carry us through the toughest of cases."

Maxine smiles back, sensing the beginning of a lifelong friendship, and when the two of them leave the air-conditioned building and meet up with the guys, the Miami sun beats down on them, hot and humid. But it doesn't bother her so much anymore.

Ten years later, Maxine is a bridesmaid at Calleigh's wedding.

* * *

_"We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations."_ –Anais Nin


End file.
